


Busy Hands

by ko_writes



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Intrusive Thoughts, Mental Breakdown, OCD, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7738390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to keep writing, in black ink on white paper. He has to keep his hands busy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Busy Hands

He had to do it. He had to write, draw tables and charts, solve equations. The pen had to scratch on high quality paper, had to leave trails of black ink on the stark white surface.

The ink must be black, never blue, always black; that way it matches the cover of his ever-present notebook.

Writing. Writing. Writing. 

He writes anything he needs to, wants to, is able to; he needs it. He needs his hands to be busy so that he can't hurt his father, his brothers, his sister, Tachibana; _never_ his sister or Tachibana. If his hands aren't busy, they could move without him thinking and he needs to do that.

Equation. Draw a chart. Statistics. Draw a chart. The idiot behind him should stop snoring so loud because, yes, no one wants to be there while the teacher drones on and on about mental health, ironically oblivious to the fact that he's nearly breaking down from his own disorder, but they are and he should be awake or at least quiet. Draw a chart.

Always draw a damn chart. 

Spot on his desk. Panic. He needs to clean it because it should be clean and he should clean it and it'll keep his hands busy so cleaning is _what he should be doing_. However, the surface wipes he carries around are stuffed in his satchel and it's on the back of his chair and the teacher will _know_ he's cleaning and not listening instead of deluding herself with the notion that he's taking notes.

What else would the student at the top of the class do, right?

Yes, yes, right, write. Keep writing. He has to keep writing or he'll strangle the inconsiderate moron behind him, and that's something he _can't do_.

Maybe he should still be taking his pills, but he _can't_ be dependent on them, like he can't stop writing because it keeps his hands busy.

Great, now Tamaki's yawning and it's almost as annoying as the snoring behind him, but yawning is less consistent. However, it's over sooner than snoring is. 

Another yawn, keep writing. He _can't_ hurt Tamaki even more so than he can't hurt the aggravation behind him because Tamaki is his _best friend_ and he mustn't. 

No more charts. No more equations. He can't think of what to write because he can't focus enough to take notes like he _should_ but he has to write _something_.

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

He scratches the same sentence along the stark white page in black ink which is always black because it has to be. He looks insane, he's sure, and he supposes he is; 'I don't know what to write' becoming his own 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy'.

Wasn't that Jack Nicholson's issue, anyway?

Keep writing. Tight chest, shallow breaths, burning throat. Keep writing. 

Keep writing. Keep writing. Bell. Chairs scraping. The teacher calling out information that's never heard or listened to. Keep writing. Keep writing.

He could clean if he wanted to, but the pen is still scratching the paper. He's ok, his hands are busy, he can't breath, the spot's still there.

Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Don't stop or you'll hurt them because you're sick and need to keep your hands busy. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know -_

"Kyouya? Kyouya, calm down!"

_\- what to write._

"Breath, Kyouya!"

Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Wide eyes, quick breaths, drowning lungs. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

_I don't know what to write._

_I don't know what to write._

"Kyouya, mon ami, please stop writing!"

Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. He can't stop. Busy hands. Can't hurt them. Organised. Clean. Neat. Informed. Choking. Drowning. Dying. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

Draw another chart.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the headcanon of Kyouya having OCD for a while, and I've gotten the urge to write it at 5am when I haven't slept all night.
> 
> I don't have OCD. I know a few basics and read other fics about it, but I'm not an expert. If anything is wrong, feel free to comment below.


End file.
